Acid Casuals

by Nicholas Blincoe

  She made him lie flat on his face, by the side of the car, as she opened the trunk. Amjad decided to make his move. He drove slowly towards her. As she heard him, she turned. The gun remained on the man, but now she had a new gun in her other hand. She must have picked this second gun out of the trunk of the gangster’s car. She was pointing it straight at Amjad.

  ‘It’s okay, it’s me.’ Amjad had to sit up in his seat and speak out of the open crack at the top of his window. He hurriedly wiped condensation off the inside of the glass and smiled at the woman.

  ‘Estela, isn’t it? Estela. Remember me?’ He thought he’d better not actually say his name. The gangster on the ground had not yet looked around – Amjad preferred not to be recognised. Unless this woman was intending to shoot the motherfucker.

  ‘Oh, hello.’ Estela tucked her newest gun under her arm and pulled open the back door of Amjad’s Nissan.

  She threw this new gun in first. It was followed by another few weapons, all quite big. Then a green Adidas bag.

  ‘Let’s go,’ she said as she walked around to the passenger seat door. Just as she was opening it, she fired down at the ground. The big handgun jerked up. Amjad couldn’t tell if she had shot him. Driving away, he tried to get a glimpse in his side-view mirror. The figure on the ground had his hands clasped behind his head. Amjad was sure that he could see him shaking. She hadn’t killed him, after all.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  They recognised her immediately. The desk sergeant looked up at her and called over to a constable: the dark lady had arrived. Theresa set her mouth in a line and nodded hello.

  ‘I heard that you want to see me.’

  ‘Call off the APB, lads. Public Enemy Number One’s just turned herself in,’ said the desk sergeant to the crowd of young constables who were leering at Theresa around an open door.

  One constable handed a xeroxed photo to Theresa; it was her face, taken from the security video. He asked her if she would autograph it for him. She couldn’t believe it. It was like the first day at school – all the older boys had come out to see if she lived up to her reputation.

  ‘We were all wondering, were you as gorgeous as you looked on the video.’

  ‘Too right she is, sarge.’

  As she was shown down a corridor, another constable cooed from a side office: ‘I’ll wait for you, love. No matter how long you get.’

  ‘If you’d like to take a seat here,’ said the sergeant. ‘We won’t keep you long, Miss O’Donnell.’

  They had already found out her name. Well, that was police work. Theresa guessed that her mam had probably phoned in, after seeing her picture on the news. She took a seat on a naugahyde-covered bench and looked at the peculiar, pinhead photofits on the walls. A couple of constables hung around by the door, asking if she would like coffee. A cigarette? Food? A date? Theresa began to feel confident that she could see the process through to the end. She knew her story would convince all the policemen she had met so far. Although these stiff, blushing post-teen police would not be the ones interviewing her. She turned to the two young coppers at the door and forced out a smile – yeah, okay, a coffee would be nice. It would keep her awake, yeah. Although she hoped she wouldn’t be here long.

  ‘I hope you are. Don’t take that the wrong way.’

  ‘If you want driving home, ask for me, all right?’

  But when she asked them if they knew why she was there, and it was clear that neither of them knew, her spirits slid like yesterday’s mascara.

  ‘What does helping-with-enquiries mean?’

  They shrugged amongst themselves. It could mean anything. Great. Just great. It looked as though she would be here for the rest of the night. When Cozy left her on the pavement, just out of sight of the station at Old Trafford, Theresa had told him not to wait, although he had offered. The story was fixed, she was determined to take it straight round to the police. But she’d had to stop and re-collect her breathing before she entered the lobby.

  The station reverberated with the muffled tap of police issue Doctor Martens. The corridors above and around her hummed with the insect-life of soldier ants, the soft hexapody of men and women marching from coffee machines to desks, from the xerox to the IBM. Theresa was squeezed between the plastic flooring tiles and the artificial ceilings, condensed by the strip lighting. She imagined a termite hill, injected with anti-freeze so that its maze of tunnels glowed fluorescent blue.

  Dl Green’s dull flat-foot step cut across every other rhythm. Theresa had only heard DI Green before. Despite him wearing the regulation shoes of the more junior policemen, Theresa recognised his approach from ten yards. She waited to match her impressions with a face. All she thought: he’s bald – or there’s a degree of balding. When he spoke, his image flicked into focus. Granite-grey face and watery eyes. The crooked swerve of his lower teeth was emphasised by nicotine stains that framed each separate tooth. Theresa fixed on the teeth as he thanked her for coming.

  ‘We’re all hoping that what you have to say clinches this business for us. If you’ll follow me, we can get cracking.’

  Theresa paused while DI Green peeled the two young policemen off the doorframe, then passed through to the corridor. As they climbed the station stairs together, DI Green explained that they had a clear idea of the relevant events. He told her that they had built a kind of scaffolding, an hypothetical matrix.

  ‘There’s established procedures for everything in policework, except what I do. I’ve got to make it up fresh, each and every time. This one’s a cunt, I tell you. I’ve got a series of tangential incidents but nothing that really gives me the full picture. I can put all the separate bits together, but I’m still left with a whacking great hole. And that’s all I’ve got. A hole that wants stuffing.’

  DI Green spoke deliberately. Theresa didn’t look at him as they climbed the stairs, she would have long enough to look at him once their interview began. But she did listen. She caught the change in register as he finished his procedural description. She knew he was smiling as he watched for her reaction but she wasn’t yet petrified – she was only playing dumb.

  ‘Have you ever seen anyone pouring concrete?’ DI Green waited for her to answer. ‘No? … What they do, they make a wooden frame, then they pour the concrete inside the frame. When it’s dry, they smash the wood away. You see the parallel? I’ve built something that looks solid but it’s not what I want. It’s only an outline. What I hope you’ll do, is fill in the spaces so that when I pour in the concrete and knock my scaffolding away I’m left with this perfectly formed solution.’

  ‘And I’m six feet under a ton of concrete.’

  ‘That’s right. You’re not stupid are you? Don’t try acting it when we get to the interview room – or you’re fucked, Miss O’Donnell.’

  In the interview room, he sat her down and told her that he’d have to leave her alone again for a minute. He needed to have a second bobby present, so that she could be sure everything was above board. She had time to look around, to notice the TV that was stood on a wheeled pedestal. She had time to squirm in the plastic seat and realise she wasn’t ever going to get comfortable. When DI Green returned with a junior partner, she saw that he had the video tape in the pocket of his once-blue jacket.

  It was DI Green’s junior who spoke first. ‘Ms O’Donnell. Would you be surprised to hear you were filmed by security standing over the body of John Caxton?’

  ‘No. I think I must have been the first one to reach him, after he was shot.’

  ‘Why didn’t you come forward earlier?’ Junior said.

  ‘I might have been the next one shot. I was scared.’

  DI Green kept her under his gaze. Theresa was only aware of him out of the side of her eyes as she talked to the younger man. She knew that he hadn’t moved. When he did, she had to switch back to him.

  ‘Scared? Why was that? What did you have to be scared about?’

  ‘Of Mr Burgess?’ asked Junior.

  ‘No. I
was scared of the Colombian woman.’

  ‘Why were you scared of her?’ DI Green, again.

  ‘She shot Yen.’

  There was a pause, Theresa didn’t know how to read it. She waited for DI Green to speak again.

  ‘You saw a woman you describe as being Colombian shoot John Caxton?’

  ‘I didn’t see her shoot him. But I saw her with the gun, later, when she tried to kill me. So she must have shot Yen.’

  ‘This woman attempted to shoot you?’

  ‘Yes. After I saw Yen and I ran out of Junk’s room, she was coming towards me with a gun.’

  Junior looked over to DI Green. They decided to take it more slowly. Junior just asked his superior frankly: ‘What shall we get? The whole story for the night?’ DI Green turned back to Theresa.

  ‘Why do you say she’s Colombian?’

  ‘She told Yen where she was from. He told me, after. He had met her the night before. She picked him up in a bar, the WARP. She bought him drinks all night and then took him back to her place. Yen said she also asked him all kinds of stuff. In the end, she made him so nervous that he did one. He ran out on her while she was sleeping.’

  ‘He waited until she was asleep, then left. Why was he nervous?’

  ‘She asked him all kinds of stuff about where he worked, about the way Burgess runs his travel agents. He didn’t tell her anything. Yen was too sharp. He knew what Burgess was doing. He knew about all the fake receipts and the amount of money pouring into the shop from God knows where. And once she said she was Colombian – he began to think ‘cocaine’. Yen always said that Burgess was a monster for coke. He had this idea that Burgess must be laundering money for some big-time cocaine dealers.’

  ‘John Caxton told you all of this? That Burgess is a coke addict who launders drug money, and that a woman picked him up in a bar so that she could pump him for information on behalf of Colombian cocaine barons?’

  ‘No. He didn’t say it like that. At first, he thought she was just chatting because she fancied him. But the questions became more specific. It was obvious that she was interested in a stack of counterfoils for dodgy sales that had gone missing from Burgess’s shop. He said she was quite subtle, but it was clear that that was what she wanted to know. He kept quiet.’

  ‘What had happened to these counterfoils?’

  ‘Yen had them. Yen always came across as stupid, but he wasn’t. He knew there was something weird about Burgess’s business and he took the counterfoils so that he’d have proof. He showed them to me.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘Yesterday? You mean Friday?’

  What day was it today? Theresa knew that she had to be precise: ‘The day he died. Just before he died. That woman killed him and when I got to him, the counterfoils were gone.’ Theresa stopped. She remembered Yen’s death face.

  In the following silence, DI Green began drumming his fingers across the formica tabletop. He started making a staccato mm-mm sound out of pursed lips. As he snapped back to earth, he slapped his palms flat on the table: ‘Right. Take us through last night.’

  Again? ‘From the beginning, when we arrived with Junk? … Okay. Junk left me and Yen in his room. He had to go downstairs and keep Burgess company. Burgess claimed he was a social coke-head, he didn’t like to snort alone. While Junk was away, Yen rolled a joint. We sat smoking it, just chilling. I started teasing him about this older woman who had picked him up in the WARP. That’s when he showed me the counterfoils, and told me about all the questions this Colombian woman asked him.

  ‘Later on, I left him and went for a wander around. I’m not sure how long I was gone. When I came back up the stairs, Yen was lying there. I shut the door quick so no one could see. If anyone passes out at the Gravity, they call an ambulance and you end up on the local news. I didn’t know he was dead, I just thought it was …’ she paused, ‘Something else, you know.’

  ‘Drugs?’

  ‘Yes, I thought he might have ODed. He had taken some pills and he didn’t know what the fuck they were. And then he’d passed out. I tried to check him over. I mean, I went to check him over. But when I got close, I saw he’d been stabbed, or something. I didn’t know he’d been shot. All I saw was a hole and a lot of blood. I looked for the counterfoils. They were gone. Then I ran.

  ‘The first person I saw, was this same Colombian woman running back towards me, throwing open the doors to the lighting room and the DJ’s box as she came down the corridor. When she saw me, I screamed. I was sure she was the one who’d killed Yen, I don’t know why. I saw her go into a pocket, and I caught sight of her gun. I lunged at her, pushed her off—balance and ran away. All I wanted to do was get out of the club as quickly as possible.’

  Junior turned to ask DI Green if they should look at the video again. DI Green reached down and brought out the video tape: ‘You put it in the machine.’

  Theresa had remembered the whole sequence. Her version worked – she only had to repeat elements of her story at the right moment in the tape. She didn’t have to change a word.

  At the moment she collided with Estela, Junk reached Estela’s shoulder. He seemed to stop her from falling but as he caught her, he staggered. Estela was propelled sideways and into the room where Yen’s body lay. The video showed there was no real escape for her. Junk seemed to scream, or make some kind of noise, and suddenly a crowd had formed. Estela was trapped with Yen’s body.

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Letting himself through a side door at the Gravity, Junk heard the voices of Bernard and Burgess below him. This side entrance opened on to a stairwell. If Junk continued down the steps, he would find himself in Burgess’s office, in the cellar below. He didn’t think that the pleasantries they might exchange, if he hobbled in on them, would be worth the trip. Instead, he stood on the ground floor landing and listened. He couldn’t make out the details of their conversation but it seemed that Bernard had only just arrived – perhaps only minutes before Junk. As he limped towards the Gravity, Junk had kept his eye open for both Bernard’s and Burgess’s cars. He had only found one, a Lexus LS400: its engine still warm enough to condense the drizzle above its bonnet. Because he had found no signs of ballistic damage, Junk guessed that it was Burgess’s. Bernard and Burgess drove identical cars. Junk had placed one frozen palm on the hood, hoping to feed off the heat.

  He hadn’t prepared for the consistent deterioration of the weather when he repacked his bag. Now, with his multiple non-fatal injuries, the weather was beginning to bear down on him. He shouldered the satchel that he had stuffed with his remaining tapes with difficulty.

  Junk checked the latch on the external door. Now that he was sure that he hadn’t been heard, he tiptoed weakly down the landing and entered the main area of the club. The place should have been rammed, tonight being a Saturday. An empty nightclub always provoked strange emotions in Junk. He sensed the after-image of all the energy dissipated here, the ghostly negative of the elements that would charge the atmosphere on a good night. The police had not allowed the club to open – they insisted that it remain shut for forensic reasons. Would Burgess have argued, when he was told? Would he instruct his lawyer to demand that the place be run as usual – that the cops were infringing his right to trade? Junk could imagine Burgess doing that; arguing. ‘So what – one cunt died, two thousand other punters didn’t.’

  For sure, Burgess would have argued in the old days. Now that he worked to make his interests appear respectable, he would probably have rolled over. Let the club stay shut: let them believe that we did it out of respect for the memory of the dead boy. There was a chill in the club tonight. Was that a part of Yen’s dead memory? There was no one who had raved, danced, drugged like Yen. There were times when Yen single-handedly created all the atmosphere the Gravity needed. Junk would watch him from above, looking through the window of his little cabin in the sky. He would see Yen standing on a pedestal, in the centre of the dance floor, so far out
of it - so totally on one – that he lifted the whole rhythm and tempo. The DJ would have to hunt for records with more intense b.p.m.s, finding himself wrong-footed by the sudden explosion of energy.

  Junk walked across the stage and dropped down to the empty dance floor. As still as this, the club looked exactly like the thing it was: an old warehouse. Junk limped through sombre space where the only undead element was the echo. When the Gravity was full, the crush of bodies acted as a physical barrier to the soundwaves. When Burgess first bought the warehouse and had it refitted as a club, Junk watched the sound engineers with interest as they calculated by what amount the number of punters would absorb and kill the sound. It wasn’t simply a question of turning the volume up so loud that the level of amplification cancelled out the effect of the mass of the crowd. These engineers – they described themselves as sonic architects – had to find ways of bouncing the sound around the club. They hung specially constructed sheets from the ceiling, explaining that they would reflect sound and redirect it back into the heart of the club. Even after the Gravity’s grand opening night, they were still running around – checking for pockets of dead space where no sound could penetrate.

  With the place empty, every one of Junk’s footsteps reverberated through the club. He tried to keep to the balls of his feet. He was sure no sound would penetrate through the concrete floor to the cellars. Still, he tried to walk with as much stealth as his injuries allowed. He clasped the satchel of tapes in front of him, and began the climb up to the balcony and his cabin beyond. The steel mesh floor of the balcony made a different sound, a soft ringing that filled the club. Junk knew this noise, too, could never reach Burgess and Bernard in the cellar below. He enjoyed the fact of sound, as much as the concretion of light. He liked that space could never be empty, that solar and sonic forces created fields of qualitatively less dense and more dense matter. He pushed through the molecular aggregations and waviform curtains that supported him and pressed forward to his private cabin at the balcony end.